Chaos and Bedbugs
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: The final part of any one of their cases before Mary, involving ruthless and desperate blackmailers, an inn room with only one bed, and a severely irate doctor. NOT SLASH. Something of a crackfic. To storm-of-insanity.
1. Chapter 1

_Originally this was only supposed to be a drabble for my "221b Baker Street" story, but then…it got longer, and longer, and longer. Yet again. *giggles* There may be a second chapter involving the capture of the blackmailers, depending upon the reaction of my wonderful readers!  
__The inspiration came from the intelligent, hilarious, and creative _storm-of-insanity. _We discussed this, and we felt the credit should go 40% to me for being the official author, 40% to her for being the inspiration, and 20% to all those who think Holmes and Watson should share a bed…(no offense meant to any slashers!) ;) As always, no slash from me, and please enjoy the endearing bromance of Holmes and Watson!_

**Chaos and Bedbugs**

"Watson, I am not to blame for this, you know."

"Holmes. Shut up."

"How was I to know there was only one?"

"I don't know, Holmes - you could possibly have tried _asking_."

"We have previously discussed this, Watson; I did not want take the risk of the blackmailers discovering you were here as well. It would have absolutely spoilt my scheme to free our client of these felons."

"Please enlighten me, Holmes, as to how on earth asking for two beds would have spoilt your _scheme_."

"How would it have appeared, Watson, for a man traveling supposedly alone to request two separate beds at the inn in which he is residing? It would have been obvious there was someone with me. Had the blackmailers discovered this, they would have known you were along, and that I was not complying to their demands for me to come alone."

I bit my tongue against a colorfully-worded remark. "Naturally, Holmes."

He gave a curt nod and slammed and locked the cracked, blackened window through which I had just clumsily entered the dusty room that smelled of mold and rum. I rubbed my shoulder where it had painfully slammed into the bedpost when Holmes so impatiently and roughly yanked me through the pane. Of course it would had to have been the sensitive shoulder that had been shot by a Jezail bullet at Maiwand. (1)

_I wonder if the enteric fever possibly caused permanent damage to my brain. It would surely explain why I continually allow him to pull me into these types of situations…. _(2)

Still, Holmes had been quite convincing with his request for me to come along to watch his back against these underworld delinquents. Holmes had explained to me that a man was using blackmail against his client, and that he had somehow managed to contact this blackmailer and his small gang and convince them that he had more "ammunition" with which they could demand a higher price. Naturally, the felon was suspicious, but unwilling to lose an opportunity at gaining more profits from his victim, and so he had demanded that Holmes come alone to this very inn to meet them and exchange business.

In turn, Holmes had demanded I come along to assist.

I should have known something troublesome would become of it, one way or another, but I had foolishly allowed him to manipulate me, yet again.

_Perhaps I should prescribe myself to an asylum; they could possibly discover the mental imbalance and cure me of this absurd irrationality…_

The two of us turned to face the _one _bed, the same thought in both minds, neither of us willing to start the debate that would be sure to last us at least thirty heated minutes of arguments; I because he was sure to have a rational line of reasoning for every justification I would present, and he because _I_ was sure to have an inarguably obstinate retort for every word of his.

"I suppose," I began at long last through an unenthusiastic sigh, "the greatest mystery now is who has the bed, and who has the floor."

"Elementary," he answered coolly and clearly, watching me carefully from the corner of his eye, one brow raised intentionally.

"_Oh, _no, Holmes," I told him resolutely, throwing my hands up to express my point. "Absolutely _not_!"

"My dear Watson…"

"Holmes!" I did not bother allowing him to finish; I knew from hundreds - if not thousands - of experiences exactly where it would end. "It's bad enough you dragged me away from a patient in the middle of an appointment, gave me exactly six minutes to pack an overnight bag, nearly got me thrown under a moving train we caught by three seconds' time, _and_ forced me to scale a wall in the dead of night to reach a third-story window I can barely squeeze through. I am not, I repeat, _am not_ going to sleep on the floor with rats and roaches and God only knows what else!"

"Watson, you may sleep on top of my coat, and I'll give you the only pillow and blanket on the bed; you'll be perfectly comfortable."

"Holmes, _NO_! That is where I draw the line!"

"Hm."

I watched suspiciously as he walked to the bed, resting his long, thin hand on the half-rotted bedrail. After a long moment, he inhaled a deep breath through his nose and exhaled slowly, his thin shoulders slumping in a rarely-seen defeat.

"I suppose you do have a point, Watson," he murmured. "Very well. You take the bed; I'll have the floor. Does that satisfy you?"

I faltered for a moment at his unheard-of subjection. Certainly I had not been expecting to win that easily, and it made me not a little hesitant. But I hastily decided that if he were willing to let me have my way for this once, no matter what his intent, I was not about to question him.

"Good," I replied, unable to keep the triumph from my voice as I scooped up my traveling bag and proceeded to the bath room to prepare for bed. (3)

* * *

Holmes stood unmoving for several seconds, until he was absolutely sure Watson was out of hearing range, and then, acting swiftly, he shoved a hand into his chest coat pocket and extracted a flour sack filled with large black beetles gathered from the bolt-hole at the Punchbowl.

With catlike movements, he wrenched back the torn, faded quilt and poured the squirming creatures across the yellowing-white bed linen and pillow. Once all were detached from the bag, he hurled the quilt back to its previous position and smoothed it so no trace of its removal was to be seen.

He had just replaced the now-empty satchel into his pocket when Watson reentered the room, dressed for bed.

* * *

"Sleep well, my dear Watson," my friend's voice called into the darkness, and I heard him shift under his coat, the boards, in turn, groaning under him. "Don't let me bed bugs bite."

"Hmph. You too, Holmes."

I rolled over in the dark and felt myself starting to fade; it had been a long and stressful day, as most were with my enigma of a roommate. I was in that half-present place between slumber and lucidness when I realized something was terribly wrong.

Tiny little needles pricked all over my flesh.

With a hiss of pain and shock, I bolted from the under the blankets and turned up the gaslight on the wall above the bed, all in one motion.

"Something wrong, Watson?" Holmes' mildly inquisitive voice called coolly from the floor.

I was too engrossed to answer as I flipped back the quilt on the bed, filled with dread, for I knew there were very few things it could be.

A cold chill went up my spine.

Black, shiny, wriggling, _enormous_ beetles squiggled all over the bedclothes, making me nauseous on the spot.

By the time the initial shock had left me, Holmes had risen and was standing on the other side of the bed, looking across at me, shaking his head disdainfully.

His eyes met mine.

"Bed bugs," he stated matter-of-factly, motioning toward the filthy, disgusting insects.

I let out an appalled sound and rubbed at the place on my wrist where one had apparently bitten me.

He stared down gallingly at the bed for a long moment, and then looked up at me with a rare sympathy in his dark eyes.

"Well, Watson, I am sorry about this. I had no idea, I assure you."

"Should we call the desk?" I asked him.

"No," he replied. "We mustn't draw any type of attention to ourselves whatsoever, and I doubt they would do much about it, anyway. Judging from the state of this place, these little beasts are probably household pets."

"So what, then?"

He inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly, turning his attention once more toward the large beetles that skittered across the bed.

"I shall take the bed, Watson," he declared at long last.

"With _those_, Holmes? I couldn't let you…"

He held up a hand to silence me. "I insist, my friend. You take the floor - it is monster-free, I assure you. I checked while you were gone."

"But you could get sick…"

"It would only be fair, after all the trouble I've caused you. I shall be fine, really. Please allow me this self-punishment. It is probably long over-due anyhow."

I stared deep into his eyes, wholeheartedly expecting to find some form of dishonesty. Sherlock Holmes is never sorry for anything, much less did he inflict any punishment in any way, shape, or form upon himself for any major wrongdoing.

And yet, I found nothing that would even hint of insincerity. He stood straight and unflinching, staring into my eyes with no pride or obstinacy to speak of. It appeared, against all odds, he was indeed willing to sacrifice his own comfort as something of an apology gift to me for his actions.

"All right, Holmes. If you're sure…"

"Quite. Now, Doctor, go treat those bites; it would not be well for an infection to set in overnight."

I nodded and went to the water in the bath room.

* * *

Holmes waited with bated breath for Watson to depart. As soon as the door separating the rooms had closed again, he walked calmly to the other end of the room, lifted his precious, worn, faded violin from its case, and returned to the bedside.

He played a distinct, unmelodic chord with his fingers on the strings.

Half-way through the tune, the beetles froze in every position, ceased their random, aimless routes, and each and every one made an intentional path for the bag which Holmes had lying opened against the mattress.

Once all insects had been safely returned to their temporary home, Holmes retied the rope 'round the top of the bag and replaced it inside his nearby suitcase. He then proceeded to leap to the now bugless bed, pull the covers over himself, and turn down the gaslights just before Watson reentered.

As he heard his friend moan softly in his awkward plight on the floor, Holmes could not stop the feeling of achievement that instigated a half-smirk in the cover of the night.

He had, once again, made order out of chaos.

**The End**…_perhaps_

* * *

(1) "A Study in Scarlet" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, page 1

(2) Same as (1)

(3) I think it is only fair to say that I'm not sure if they called it a "bath room" back then, but I could find no other information on it, so I figure everyone will understand what it means.

* * *

_Is it good? Bad? Humorous? Out-of-character? Please tell me in a review!  
__And, once again, I may write a second more action-y chapter involving them bringing the criminals to justice and Watson's reaction if and when he finds the bag hidden in Holmes' suitcase…*biggrin* So tell me what you think!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Watson was getting pretty sick of lying on the floor; he insisted that I let him stand up. I took pity, so - here's Chapter Two. When I posted Chapter One, I was kinda hoping I could end up making it a one-shot, 'cause I knew if I didn't, it'd morph into a multi-chapter fic. But alas, my readers and muse have convinced me. At the moment I'm not letting my brain think past Chapter Three in hopes that it'll just stay three chapters...but who knows?  
Thanks to all my reviewers, and to _storm-of-insanity_! Hope you enjoy it, friend._

**Chaos and Bedbugs  
****Chapter Two**

For a full three hours, I lay there on that cold, damp, splintery floor, listening to nothing but an occasional footstep outside the door and Sherlock Holmes' breathing. He was not asleep, that much I could deduce from his uneven breaths; moreover, he was not attempting to _feign_ sleep, as I knew he was quite capable of doing if he wished it.

I wondered if he were in pain, but did not dare to question him, for the obstinacy he exhibited proved that any voiced concern would be in vain.

Sleep would not come for me either, but for a different purpose than his obvious physical ones. I had known Sherlock Holmes for but a few months — eight, to be exact — and I had in the very first week determined that this odd man was not one to relinquish his personal comforts for another. He was his own man, lived by his own laws, with no use or care for anyone. Not to say that he was incompatible; on the contrary, aside from his constant mess, he was quite easy to live with — much easier than one would expect upon first examination of his character. That is, if one had a great deal of time and tolerance to familiarize with said personality. Since my return to England, in light of my unrenowned, as of yet unsuccessful practice that was more of an occasional advisory visit from an acquaintance than a professional appointment, I did have the time. (1)

Still, he did not seem to be one who would "punish" himself for any issue that may come about that was his own fault.

My brow wrinkled in the dark. It was very odd, considering he had shown no remorse for, say, dragging me into a street fight the second week we met and watching me treat my knuckle-shaped bruises…or frightening away half my small number of patients with his explosive chemicals and indoor bullet practice…or nearly caused me to fall to my death when my weakened leg couldn't push me to the window of this drafty hotel. Why the devil would he feel such guilt and regret for a filthy inn's bedbugs?

It was in that moment that it became clear. He had anticipated that I would demand the bed for myself. He had somehow positioned the cockroaches in the bed and removed them without my seeing. That was why he urged me to "go treat those bites;" he found a way to do away with them while I was in the lavatory. That would at least explain what he was doing bent on the floor holding a flour sack at the Punchbowl the night before. He hadn't gone there to get a magnifying lens; he had gone to gather the black bugs that I've noticed infest the place. He had schemed — against _me_, of all people! (2)

Then again, I was not surprised in the least.

Fuming (quite justifiably, I might add), I leapt from the floor in a single motion, and without any friendly warning, wrenched the quilt back from the bed.

"Watson!" he hissed in the darkness, quite satisfyingly astounded. "Have you no respectability?"

"You bloody magician!" I answered, pointedly ignoring him. "How did you do it?"

"Do what, Watson? What on earth are you going on about?"

"Do not play with me, Holmes. I know you placed those roaches in that bed. How did you do it?"

In the dim glow of the moon through the patched curtains, Holmes' eyebrows shot up before he deliberately controlled his reaction.

"I haven't the faintest clue as to what you are talking about, Watson. You know, you really should stop spending so much time working amongst your patients. Then perhaps you would not be so sleep-deprived, making senseless deductions with no scientific basis whatever."

I sucked in a steadying breath through my nose and stifled a rather ungentlemanly response to his sneaky insult of my intelligence.

"Holmes," I droned, my voice as cool as his on his best days, but with an undeniable undertone that made my inner thoughts unmistakably obvious, "I know what you were doing at the Punchbowl last night. I know why you wouldn't let me have my coat back this morning - it's because you had them hidden in there, isn't it? I know why you sent me out of the room, and I know why you took the bed."

"On the contrary, Watson, I don't think you do…" He was never to finish the matter-of-fact retort, for right in that instant he sat straight up, his eyes wide and alight with a sudden fervor.

"Watson, get back in your place!"

"What? My _place_? Holmes, the floor is most certainly _not_ my place, regardless of your selfish conviction to the contrary."

"Blast it all, Watson! Get _down_!"

Before I had the chance to react, he had somehow leapt from beneath the bedclothes and quite literally tackled me back onto the pile of moth-eaten blankets and his tobacco-scented coat.

I blinked in surprise, and when I looked up again the bedclothes were just drifting back down over Holmes where he lay perfectly motionless on the mattress.

A split-second later, the door burst open with a deafening crack, and the dim, yellowed light from the hall poured into our little room.

**To be continued**

_

* * *

_

(1) I know what you're all thinking: _"This chick needs to watch the movie. Watson h_ates living with Holmes and his annoying habits!"

But let's be logical about it, shall we? If Watson really detested living with Holmes so much, why would he have stayed there? Surely there were other places for rent that he could afford in London. I think the reason he was having such difficulty during the movie was because Holmes was purposefully being worse than usual due to his bitterness towards Watson. Before that, it was just the two of them, so they learned to handle each other's flaws without problems. If you don't agree, I won't be offended. That's just my personal view.

(2) Special thanks to _Shiro Anubis_ for the help with the name.


	3. Chapter 3

_It seems like it's been forever since I posted in this fandom...or in any fandom, really. My chapter fic is going well, thanks for asking. It should be up sometime soon (How many times have we heard _that_ one? *sigh*) Anyway, I actually like this chapter. Maybe this will explain to the skeptics why Holmes put Watson in the floor to begin with. Enjoy!  
Once again, this is for **stormofinsanity**. Hope you like it, hun!_

**Chaos and Bedbugs  
Part III**

Product of over twelve weeks and an equal (perhaps greater) number of near-fatal experiences, I followed Holmes' typically vague example and feigned a slumbering state, keeping my eyes still beneath my lids and pointedly slowing my breathing to deep, even exhalations. Above me, Holmes was so utterly silent that had I not known it to be impossible, I would have assumed he had left the room.

A thick-soled pair of shoes trudged heavily across the squeaky floorboards, but I was somewhat bemused to hear that their owner was not moving towards the bed, seeming to show little interest in Holmes' (apparently) sleeping form. (It was quite improbable that he had not seen him, for the bed was the first thing to be struck with the light from the hall when the door was opened.) My ears caught the sound of a second person – obviously male, by the deep, hoarse breathing – entered, closing the door noiselessly behind him and shrouding the place once again in musky darkness.

As more men's footsteps filled the dry silence – seeming to my ears to be much louder in the inky blackness – I realized that I had been incorrect; there were certainly more than two men – five, in the least. They moved at different zones throughout the room, so skillfully quiet that even I, being an extremely light sleeper, would not have heard had I not yet been awake.

I opened my eyes only a slit and peered, hoping to catch a glimpse of any of them so that I might accurately judge what sort of chance Holmes and I stood were this situation to become perilous. I saw, with an undeniable pang of irritation, that Holmes had placed me on the opposite side of the bed, in such a position as I could see only the blackness of the underside of the mattress. I was entirely blinded as to what was occurring anywhere else in the small room.

A few more soft noises, as of objects being resituated, a brief stillness, then, deep and barely audible, "I thought you said 'e brought 'em."

"He did!" snapped a dangerously hissing reply. "Those were the orders. He knows better than to cheat us. He knows of what we're capable."

"Well, I don't see anything in his bags," whined another, high-pitched whisper.

"Wake him up!" came an order from the second voice, and then there was an ensuing thumping noise, as of someone being struck, and Holmes' sleepy moan, followed by another set of feet hitting the floor.

The gaslights were lit hastily, and then Holmes' voice, with just the perfect measure of befuddlement, annoyance, and alarm, "The arrangements were made for tomorrow morning at eight o'clock. I demand to know what you are doing in my room at this ungodly hour."

"I do not believe you are in any position to demand anything, Mister Kenshin (1)," said a voice smooth as glass, and I recognized it to be the second speaker, who was obviously the representer of the gang and most likely the organizer as well.

When I realized the lights had been turned up and I was yet concealed from them, it struck me in a dawning instant what all the tussles between us these past few hours had truly been: Holmes, once again with an ingenious scheme which he naturally anticipated me to follow without his revealing it to me beforehand. I rolled my eyes, despite my predicament. Of course; it was completely like Sherlock Holmes to go through all the effort to keeping me out of the bed instead of simply explaining _why_ he needed me hidden on its opposite side.

"Do you have the documents?" he continued, and even from his tone I could easily perceive that he was fully prepared to do whatever necessary to ensure Holmes released them.

"If you would be so kind as to return tomorrow morning, as we agreed, I am sure you will be much more…motivated by what you find," answered my friend evenly, and I also knew by his voice that he would not submit without an adequate reason to do so.

"And fall right into whatever trap you've set for us?" sneered the shriller voice.

"You underestimate me, Kenshin," added the leader reproachfully. "Or would you rather be addressed by your real name, Mister Sherlock Holmes?"

There was another soft sound, and then I heard Holmes' resisting grunts as he struggled against the hold two of them had taken on his arms.

"You see, I always make it a point to know those with whom I am working," continued the gang leader offhandedly, amidst Holmes' scuffling, "and when a perfect stranger suddenly sends word that he wishes to assist me in my cause, and I investigate and discover that Jasper Kenshin of Fargison Lane has been dead for nearly a decade, the logical deduction would be that Mister Kenshin is not an agent of evil. What, then, is his purpose? The only thing left – good."

By now, the struggling had ceased, and when the man's next question rang out, I could clearly visualise my friend's unamused and sour expression.

"Do you not appreciate my line of reasoning, Mister Holmes? I thought you, of all people, would approve." When he received no reply, he went on, "Though I do admit, your ingenious plan took me longer to dismantle than it did you to construct, I'm sure. I always have heard that you were a brilliant man, sir, and so I was duly aware that if my dear cousin was to hire a man to free him of the vexations I caused, it would be you."

"You are too kind, Stieber," came Holmes' cool, skeptical answer, and I could imagine how the corners of his mouth would twitch as he said it.

"However," sighed the leader – Stieber – with rebuke, "I would have expected better from you. Really, Holmes, sending a message to Inspector Hopkins to gather men here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning? That was so pitifully easy to intercept, really it was. And so _uninspiring_. I would have thought you would invent something a bit more original."

"_H__umanum est errare_, I suppose," replied Holmes calmly.

"So I shall ask you once again, great detective. Do you or do you not have the papers I seek?"

"I do."

"And will you give them to me?"

"I shall not."

"Very well."

A snap of fingers, and then the dull, heavy thud of flesh striking flesh. I heard the sharp intake of Holmes' breath, followed by another blow, to which he all but cried out as the sound of a body falling filled the room.

"That is hardly scratching the surface of what they are capable, Mister Holmes," said the felon, and it was all I could do not to leap from where I was hidden and thrash him on the spot. No, I decided, better to wait for Holmes' signal.

I heard him pick himself up from the floor, and was relieved that his voice was steady as ever when he spoke.

"'Who overcomes with force hath overcome but half his foe,' (2) Stieber. I shan't tell you where they are. You know that."

"Oh," replied the other man flippantly, "I believe you shall, Mister Holmes. It may take all the night long, but we have until precisely eight o'clock tomorrow morning, do we not?"

With that, there was a series of the same repeated abuse. Every muscle in my body tensed with readiness, but I dared not move without his sign to act, for I knew from an experience once previous that doing so would most likely result in failure of Holmes' plan – whatever it may be.

Then, abruptly, I realized there was a lull in the noise. Complete silence reigned for several seconds, and then Stieber spoke.

"Well, I did hear that you are a student in baritsu. I must say that I approve. You dismantled him in less than five seconds. I really must research this defensive art; it is most impressive…though, I fancy the polish of its execution is more dependent upon the pupil than the action itself, eh?"

"If that was a feeble attempt at flattery, it was certainly not appreciated," answered my friend shrewdly. "If you had any good sense, you would cease these fruitless attempts and leave while you still have the chance to flee the city."

"Your most considerate counsel is received, Holmes," said he. "However, I think we both know that I shall do no such thing – not unless I have those documents in my hands when I board the train."

"My client has paid you more than enough dues to satisfy both your opium addiction and former wife's demand for money, don't you agree?"

There was a brief inhalation, and then man recovered himself and chuckled, sounding quite amused at Holmes' knowledge of his questionable background.

"Well, well, and here I thought those articles you wrote on the science of deduction were no more than selfish appeals for attention. Once again you enthuse me, sir. It is a shame we have not the time to hear more, is it not?"

Holmes' husky yelp of unexpected pain seemed authentic enough, but in my experience I had heard both the feigned cry and the sincere, and it was obvious to me that whatever was being done to him was not as bad as he pretended.

Still, after six breathless minutes of my listening to the dreadful-sounding beating, I had to physically force my clenched fists apart. Why didn't he send me the sign to disrupt it? Surely whatever the reason he had for postponing my stopping them was not worth the injuries he was obviously sustaining in the process; it would be a typical Holmesian choice to risk his own health and safety for a case, and that facet of his character had concerned me on more than one occasion in the past (and still does, unfortunately).

Still, I remained steady in my hiding place, awaiting his summons. That is, until something occurred that Holmes, in all his brilliance, had not predicted.

"My, my," Stieber's voice was like a dove's cooing, "you certainly do take your clients' wellbeing very seriously, don't you, Mister Holmes?

"If I did not, I would haven o vocation, I fear," replied Holmes, the self-assurance that had been previously present masked by a degree of hoarse pain.

I had to swallow back angry words at the strain which I heard in that dominant voice. Even as Stieber continued, I winced at the damage I would, in all probability, be correcting soon, once all of this drama had been cleared.

"There really is no reason for it, you know. You would be sparing yourself and me a great deal of hardship if you would only tell me where those documents are."

"If you yet believe I will, you are obviously of even lower intelligence than I perceived."

"Hm." A beat of silence. "Very well, then."

Amidst a muffled, sickening crack of bone breaking, a gravelly scream of anguish ripped through the room. My mind froze and body involuntarily went rigid at the heartrending sound; horrendous memories of a bloody battle that had not been over for very long were resurrected from the parts of my mind I had locked away.

That pain was real. This was the only thought that would register.

I could bear it no longer, and before I could contemplate the consequences of such a move, I leapt from my hiding-place and was barely in time to see Sherlock Holmes collapsing as his knees buckled beneath him.

**To be continued**

* * *

(1) Kenshin – "modest, truthful" in Japanese…_get it?_

(2) John Milton

* * *

_Yes, I know what I said. And believe me, I never thought it'd reach four chapters, but here we are. Hopefully the next one will be the last, but one never can tell...  
Oh, and as you can probably tell, Stieber's character is based loosely off of Jim Moriarty in BBC1's Sherlock. Moriarty was always my favorite villain, but this updated version could run circles around any villain any day of the week._


End file.
